


don't look back in anger

by kingblake



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: ANYWAY I'M TALKING TOO MUCH, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fake Dating, Mutual Pining, Sort of Canon Compliant?, also assume that all they found in the vault was a few weapons and a shit-ton of money, assume this all happens after they open the vault, enemies to lovers with a TWIST!, fuck you telltale, here's the actual tags, i fuckin DID it, i played through this game in about one day and spent my HARD earned money on all the episodes, it's been a whole three months since i've written anything, no nsfw... yet, so this is my re-entry into fanfic hehe, the MOTHER of all tropes, this is horribly self-indulgent and i really just don't have a plot planned out yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-06-09 21:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15276981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingblake/pseuds/kingblake
Summary: So what if she’d searched for him until exhaustion claimed her body and she’d curled up under a hunk of singed Hyperion roofing to sleep? So what if she’d torn through the nearby towns, calling his name, begging him to come home?He’d lied to her. To all of them.- or -Rhys needs a date.





	1. hard carry

**Author's Note:**

> it's ya girl, back again with a different fandom because i have a HORRIBLE habit of fandom-jumping when anything remotely interests me, so. i'm back with VIDEO GAMES and another HET SHIP. god damn it. anyway, this chapter might be a little short but this is a project i'm really looking forward to & this is my re-entry to fanfic so i'm sort of working out the kinks in my writing chops because it's been such a long time. please don't worry about possible typos/grammatical errors because like i said - it's been a long time. god, i need to shut up. just -- enjoy!

By definition, Rhys and Fiona are enemies. They’ve always been at odds with one another, even when they’re _supposed_ to be working together, and it’s not like they ever even _wanted_ to be on the same side anyway.

...right?

They were lumped in with one another at the expense of their own sanity ( _totally_ not _their fault_ ) and they’d worked together to find Gortys and her upgrades ( _all that work for something so disturbingly underwhelming. For Christ’s sake, Sasha almost_ died. _And for_ what? _A glowing box? A faint tingling sensation up her arms? A huge_ fucking _teleportation monster with a penchant for being a dick?_ )

They’d spent days, maybe even weeks talking and talking and talking about their lives and everything they’d done only to _fail_ at the end to someone who thought it was funny to parade them around like walking duct-tape mummies.

And still Rhys had lied to her.

Fiona had made a living out of her ability to lie to people. Lying is as easy to her as breathing, as simple as buttering a pan. Sasha jokes that she’s like a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out liars, because it takes one to know one and she’s the best there is.

And yet, _Rhys_ had done it.

_Handsome Jack?_

Of all the things to keep from her. God! He had Handsome Jack in his head, knocking around like a fussy old nanny, and he’d just stayed quiet about it?

And she hadn’t known about it until the _day_ they’d gotten separated on Helios?

The same Handsome Jack who’d burned Pandora to the ground and called it _progress?_

She’d sifted through the wreckage of Helios for _weeks_ looking for Rhys. She’d seen the remnants of his arm, speared by a piece of jagged metal, seen the crushed remnant of his cybernetic eye on the ground where he’d dropped to his knees.

So _what_ if she’d searched for him until exhaustion claimed her body and she’d curled up under a hunk of singed Hyperion roofing to sleep? So _what_ if she’d torn through the nearby towns, calling his name, begging him to come home?

He’d _lied_ to her. To _all_ of them.

When she’d seen him for the first time since the crash -- tied up and being dragged like a ragdoll by the masked Stranger through the desert, she’d choked back a sob and spit out insult after insult. She’d kicked dirt in his face and yowled like a cat until she couldn’t focus on anything but the hurt on his face and that dimple in his cheek that only ever seemed to appear when he was concentrating on keeping his big, stupid mouth shut. She _hated_ him for making her worry.

Not because she cared about him, but because Fiona only ever worried about two people -- Sasha, of course, and _herself._ Not Vaughn, not Felix, not August, not _anyone_. 

But damn it, if she hadn’t felt her stomach drop to her feet whenever the sun had set on her third day of searching and she hadn’t caught _one_ word of Rhys or...wherever he’d gone. People like him weren’t supposed to make her _feel_ things like that.

People like him didn’t just _disappear_ for a year without a word in edgewise.

Rhys had fallen from the sky and taken a sledgehammer to the life Fiona knew. He’d snuck up on her with those coy smiles and his awful fashion sense and he’d gotten her to _worry_ about him.

What an ass.

So she decided to hate him. A few months ago, actually, she sat down and drew up a list of all the reasons to hate Rhys.

One: his infuriating hair. Perfectly coiffed at all times, and for _what_? Who’s he trying to impress?

Two: his stupid face. Does it have to be so _symmetrical?_ Why can’t he just have, uh, a fucked up nose like everyone else?

Three: his fashion sense. God, does he _always_ dress like a colorblind toddler who got ready in the dark? What is _with_ the stripes? She might have a thing for asymmetry, but at least it looks _good_ on her.

And to top it all off, he moves to Atlas. From one corporation to another, right? She’s survived bar brawls and death races and a Vault guardian, for chrissake, but nothing hurts like knowing that Rhys was the one who’d broken through her carefully constructed wall. He’d burst through -- “ _Heyyyy_!” -- like the Kool-Aid man and left her to build herself back up with brick and mortar and a distinct hatred for men with too-much hair gel.

And _Atlas?_ Top weapons manufacturer in the galaxy, the same Atlas that Athena had torn apart with her bare hands? And now _Rhys_ is the CEO?

When she’d first heard that he’d picked up the rights to own Atlas she’d laughed in his face. “You could _never,_ ” she’d barked, and there it was again -- that dimple in his cheek, the tic in his brow, the hurt scribbled across his face as if it were the only expression he’d ever known.

Because that was Rhys -- an open book.

She hadn’t said it to make him feel bad. Had she?

She’d _simply_ meant that she couldn’t see him as a CEO -- all tuxedoed up and hunched over a desk. Not after what they’d been through together -- she’d seen him scrub blood out of his own ear with a three-day old sock. She’d watched him crawl up a bloody shaft full of saw-blades and swinging axes ( _and he might have even put his hand in some dried brain matter, but that’s beside the point_ ). He’s built like a beanstalk and looks like he’d weigh twenty pounds soaking wet. He’s not built like Vasquez, he _certainly_ isn’t built like his ex-hero Jack.

And still she sees the progress he’s making at Atlas. He hunts down the stragglers left over from Athena’s reign of terror and enlists Cassius as his top researcher. The compound where they’d found Gortys’ upgrade went from being an arboretum of death to a beautiful factory where far more life was given than it was taken away. 

She sees pearl-handled revolvers crop up in loot crates and Atlas tech passed from hand to hand as if it were the finest currency around. She knows it’s _him_. It’s Rhys, building one corporation from the scraps of another. Every penny made is a nail in Handsome Jack’s coffin, and soon enough Rhys had enough to finally compensate for everything Pandora had taken from him.

It scares her, she thinks, how he can spend weeks away from the Purple Skag, and just when she’s getting used to his absence, he shows up again -- just as wry and as _dumb_ as he was when he’d left them.  

She _hates_ him for it, how he can just slip through the cracks like he’d always belonged there. He’s corporate _scum_ , a company man, a middle-manager of the worst sort. Even Vaughn wanted to _stick it to the man_ , write off Hyperion as a company that jumped the shark. But Rhys took Atlas and ran with it like it was his all along. 

So _why_ does he come back?

He’s a big-shot CEO well on his way to being the richest man on Pandora, with regular trips to Eden-5 on the side.

He doesn’t _belong_ on Pandora anymore. He _certainly_ doesn’t belong at the Purple Skag, hunched over at the bar like a regular customer. He shouldn’t be allowed to drink their beer and waste their air conditioning because he deserves _better._

Better than Pandora.

Better than _Fiona._  

A con-artist who’s just as much a Vault Hunter as she is a tightrope walker and a multibillionaire. Which is, to say, she’s _not_.

She turns away from him. It’s nothing personal, she tells herself, but she doesn’t get the chance to explain that to Rhys.

His silvery fist glints in the dim light of the bar. “I thought we were past this, Fi.” He waves a hand at _her_ , at her hunched frame on the stool beside his own, a scowl writing itself across his features. He’s long since stopped trying to control his temper around her. Probably, she thinks, because whatever temper he throws at her, she can throw back at him tenfold. 

She scowls right back at him. “Past _what?_ You acting like- like some kind of Pandoran scumbag? You’ve got _money_ , Rhys.” She grits her teeth and clamps a hand over her eyes. She can’t look at him, _won’t_ look at him. “You’ve got- ugh. You’ve got the opportunity to get the hell out of this shithole and _never_ look back.”

She swings an arm out at him, at the bar, at Sasha and August who are huddled together over two beers, muttering about god knows what in the corner booth. “You don’t _belong_ here. For _Christ’s_ sake, why are you here? Why- why do you stay?”

It’s not that she wants him gone. Later, after he’s left the bar, she chalks her desires up to instinct -- she wants what’s best for him, and even though Pandora’s changed him from a sniveling goober to a self-sufficient CEO, it’s only a stop gap for places like Eden-6 and the world of the high-class elites. Places where he’d thrive like a flower in a rainforest.

And then he levels her with a look that could have scalped a skag. 

“You know _damn_ well why, Fiona.”  

She feels like she’s sitting on a powder keg. 

He stands up and his stool clatters to the ground with a bang. And there he is -- the old Rhys, embarrassed, cheeks blooming rosy pink as he bends to pick it up. He sends Sasha an apologetic wave, and then he’s gone -- leaving Fiona slightly drunk and _very_ confused.

And so, by definition, they’re enemies. Two people who fell apart on bad terms and haven’t spoken to one another in _months_.

As far as Fiona knows, Rhys could be anywhere. Not that she cares, of course, or that she actively wonders where he is, but, you know. She...considers him. From time to time. It’s not weird, right? Not weird at all.

After all, he is a corporate CEO and she’s...well. She’s a criminal. A lowlife. A _degenerate._ It’s not like they were ever best friends to begin with, right? She mostly tolerated him, and as far as she was concerned, he felt the same way.

Didn’t he?

There’s no way someone like him could ever stand someone like her. It’d be like a lion trying to make peace with a hyena. Good, in theory, but awful in execution.

She putters around the caravan one sunny afternoon ( _because for all the loot they pulled from the Vault, they couldn’t bear to part with the great yellow beast that had protected them from so much_ ) tidying up and banging loose panels back into a place with a hammer she’d filched from the nearest supply vendor.

Sasha’s out for the day, working her shift at the Purple Skag, and August prefers _not_ to spend his time in the caravan that almost ran him over. Several times.

And Vaughn is Vaughn. He’s...got shit to do. Hyperion ore-monkeys to herd. Pacifists to raise. Things like that. He really doesn’t hang around much now that Rhys is gone. She’s pretty sure they keep in touch, but if Vaughn knows where Rhys is, he keeps his mouth shut.

And it’s not like he _wants_ to spend his days at the Purple Skag when he’s got all of Helios to revamp and rebuild. The Children of Helios are his loyal followers. He’s got better things to do than hang out with a bunch of ragtag con artists and ex-antagonists. Fiona’s wouldn’t even want to hang out with _herself_. She really can’t blame Vaughn for keeping his distance. 

And Felix -- well. He’s kinda dead.

“Choke on it,” she’d said. Sometimes she still gets a pretty good laugh out of it.

So she’s alone in the caravan, as she so often finds herself. It’s sunny outside ( _but when is it_ not _sunny outside?_ ) but the sort of sunny that’s pleasant. Not skin-melting, blood-boiling hot. Just pleasant. Fiona’s little satellite radio rattles away a tune from ages past. The ECHO-net is _horribly_ outdated when it comes to music, especially on Pandora.

But still, it’s -- cozy. Comfortable. Sunlight sends reaching beams through the front slats of the caravan’s window and the gentle lull of the calm air makes Fiona want to lay down under her coat and nap for thirty years.

Normally she’d be busy training with Athena at this hour, but she and Janey had taken a trip to the Atlas compound to make amends with Cassius. Janey’s there for moral support, of course, and she’s the best known buffer for Athena’s extreme temper. 

So they’re... _busy_.

Which leaves Fiona totally alone. One hundred percent useless. With absolutely _nothing_ to do other than look for things to do.  

She whacks another siding panel back into place with her hammer. Who knew the caravan was in such bad shape? Hadn’t she _just_ paid to have it fixed?

Whatever.

Fiona lifts her hammer again, arm poised to strike the final panel, and then --

 _Clang_. _Clang_. _Clang._

She frowns. Her arm hadn’t moved, had it? Her hammer certainly hadn’t made that noise.

She spares a peek over her shoulder. The noise had come from the side door. So someone was...knocking?

As far as she knew, the bandits knew not to mess with the Caravan. Sasha and Loader Bot had spent days equipping it with self-defense mechanisms. And that _sound_ … like someone slapping the door with a hammer. Or a gun. Or a battering ram. Or something made of metal.

Metal.

She frowns, shaking her head. But it _can’t_ be. She has an idea, but it’s futile. A hopeless wish.

She hefts her hammer and travels lightly to the door. There’s no window, damn it, so she won’t see what -- or _who_ \-- knocked until she opens the door, but she has a very good idea of who it might be. And damn, her stomach is churning. She’d eaten breakfast, right? She can’t imagine why she’d feel like this, unless she’s getting sick. God, she hopes she doesn’t get sick.

Just _do_ it, Fiona. Like ripping off a band-aid.  

She yanks the door open and the source of the knocking tumbles inside. Fiona yelps and stumbles backwards, only barely managing to catch herself on the inner railing. She bangs her elbow on the railing, groaning, as the man who’d been so stupidly leaning against the door pushes himself off of _her_ , hands flat against her stomach. One flesh, one cold metal.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?” She spits at him, rubbing her elbow. His eyes meet hers -- one cool brown, the other burning gold, and he honest-to-god _smiles._

A stupid, dopey grin that lights up his whole face. 

“What, you were gonna fight me off with a hammer? That’s- that’s a new low. Don’t you have that tiny gun?” Rhys reaches forwards to grab her wrist, but she jerks her arm away, banging her _other_ elbow on the railing.

She frowns and scrambles back into the caravan, turning and chucking her hammer onto the tiny dining table. Great. Now _both_ of her elbows hurt.

“You didn’t answer my question.” She says, and Rhys straightens up, assuming his role as the bigshot CEO. He’s dressed like he normally is, which Fiona almost appreciates. Stupid stripes, stupid vest, stupid pants, _stupid_ face.  

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” he mutters thoughtfully, his hand going to his chin. He looks around as if he’s an art fanatic in a showroom. “There’s a lot less blood on the walls. Very nice.”

Fiona’s fists clench. “There’s about to be a _lot_ more if you don’t tell me why you’re here?’

“What?” He asks, even though his fear is written across his face. “I can’t visit an old friend without being threatened?”

“No, because guys like you don’t just _come back_.”

He frowns. “Explain.”

Fiona crosses her arms. “Because you don’t just get rich and famous and then come back to slum with ‘ _Pandoran Scum’,_ as you once called us. We aren’t charity cases.”

Rhys blinks, then leans back against the wall. He’s just as skinny and tall as he was when she’d first met him, but there’s something new about him. Like he’s fought and lost far more battles than he’s won. Not that he was ever that good at winning battles anyway.

 “You still don’t get it, do you?” He asks, that infuriating dimple appearing in his cheek again. His eyebrows tic down, and for one frightening moment Fiona wants to smooth her thumbs over his cheekbones, ready to wipe that stupid look off his face. And then she hits herself. Mentally, of course. What kind of _idiot_ thinks things like that? Certainly not her.

 “No, Rhys. I _obviously_ don’t.” She reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “So _please_ explain it to me.”

“You’re my _friend,_ Fiona. Believe it or not, I-”

 “We are _not_ friends.” She spits, because she can’t _take_ it anymore. “Friends don’t _leave_ each other once they find something better.”

 And then that hurt on his face turns to fury. His eyes glow, and not just because of his cybernetics. Something foreign turns in her stomach.

 “You think I _wanted_ to leave, Fiona? I really didn’t have a say in that matter, did I. As far as you were concerned, _I don’t belong here._ ” And she knows he’s quoting her, reminding her of the night at the Purple Skag when she’d sent him away.

 He rubs a hand through his hair. “The double standard is _astounding_ , Fi. First you hate me for finding success, for _sticking around_ , and now you’re mad at me for staying away? Is anything gonna make you happy?”

 Oh.

 Her eyes drop to her lap. Her hands wring together, and for one horrifying moment she can feel tears springing to her eyes, hot and dangerously close to spilling over.

 She bites them back and shakes her head. But he’s not done.

 “You hate me for being successful, right? Because all you’ve done since the Vault is sit around and smack a caravan around and _drink_ like nothing ever happened. _Maybe_ you’ve been training with Athena. But _what_ else have you done other than hate me and feel sorry for yourself?” But now he doesn’t look angry. Just...tired. Maybe Atlas is taking the fight out of him.

  _Good._

Enemies, she reminds herself. Enemies.

 “Why are you here?” She asks, her head ducked low. Changethesubjectchangethesubjectchangethesubject.

 “Don’t laugh,” he says, as if he’s just as anxious to change the subject as she is. It couldn’t have been easy for him to say any of that. Sweet, nervous Rhys. What did Atlas do to him? What did _she_ do to him?

 “Try me.” She says. And they fall into their old bickering habit -- but it doesn’t feel right. Puzzle pieces fitting together but they’re two different puzzles and they're assembling it in the dark.

 “I need you to go with me to Eden-5.”

 _What?!_  

“What!?”

Eden-5 is the place where rich people go to die. Shining streets, corrupt police force, _universities?_ People probably wipe their ass with money there. 

“I said what I said. Eden-5. I need you to go with me.”

“Is that where you’ve been spending all of your time lately?” She asks, frowning.

“Some of it,” he admits. “I’m trying to re-establish Atlas up there and the place to do it is at this, uh. Gathering. I need you to go with me.”

She laughs, incredulous. “And why do you need _me?_ ” She asks. _Now_ she’s curious. And sure, she’d like to get off Pandora. To Eden-5? Hell yeah, she’d _love_ to try wiping her ass with money.

“This gathering,” Rhys says. “It’s very high class. Talking to the right people could ensure a spot for Atlas _for good._  The problem is --”

He looks up, blooming red from the base of his neck all the way up to his ears.

“I need a date.”

 


	2. i wanna get better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me! Hopefully this one is (lengthier) and (more enjoyable to read). As always, ignore my inevitable typos and enjoy!

Any hopes of seeing Eden-5 Fiona might have had explode to tiny little smithereens when Rhys utters the word ‘date’. He’s red as a tomato, and while Fiona might once have thought it amusing ( _ cute, even, but you didn’t hear it from her _ ), right now it just makes her want to slap him senseless and then stick her head under a rock until she becomes a fossil.

 

Date?  _ Date? _

 

No, never. Not  _ her _ .

 

In his  _ dreams. _

 

She’d even pegged Rhys on his little  _ crush _ before they’d walked into the Vault together. He’d said he was interested in someone else other than Sasha, and her immediate thought had been  _ Yvette _ . She was the only one who’d ever actually been Rhys’ friend, betrayal or not. And Fiona knows better than anyone that Rhys forgives too easily.  _ Far _ too easily. 

 

But Yvette wasn’t his only option, was she? For all Fiona knew, Rhys could’ve preferred men. It would certainly explain a  _ lot _ . Vaughn wasn’t so bad looking himself once you got past his irritating personality. And August -- he was more the handsome villain type. Not out of Rhys’ range. Loader Bot...maybe? No, too weird. He’d definitely referred to Rhys as a father figure before. What is she even  _ thinking? _ He’s a  _ robot _ . Definitely not Rhys’ type. Not that Fiona had ever considered his type.

 

Point being, he doesn’t need  _ her _ as a date. There’s  _ someone else. _

 

Unless he knew someone else on Helios that she didn’t. Or maybe he’d met someone between the time they’d met the stranger and the time they’d opened the Vault. There’s a thousand possibilities, and none of them point to  _ her _ . He’s the CEO of Atlas. He could have anyone he wanted, so why come to  _ her _ for help? 

 

She can almost imagine an Eden-5 floozy with bleached blonde hair and the biggest, genetically enhanced,  _ violet _ eyes she’s ever seen dripping from Rhys’ arm as he spins her around a dance floor full of the same blonde-haired purple-eyed bimbos that Pandora is thankfully devoid of. 

 

It’s not impossible, is it? Rhys has a robot eye and an entire interface installed in his head. It’s not like people from Eden-5 couldn’t modify themselves genetically. Like plastic surgery but way cooler.

 

For the love of Christ, what is she  _ doing?  _ Stalling herself? Rhys is asking her to be his  _ date _ .

 

She barks out a harsh laugh and tosses her head back. “Oh, God, Rhys, you’ve  _ got _ to be kidding me.” Rhys frowns and leans against the wall, some of the color in his face fading. 

 

Yeah. She kind of has that effect on people.

 

And  _ besides _ .

 

She’s  _ way _ out of his league.

 

She hams up the laugh with far too much ease to be normal- her hand clutches at her stomach and she doubles over, slapping at her knees. Because  _ laugh  _ is all she can think to do in this moment, where fear and dread creeps up her throat and threatens to bubble forth and spill down the front of her shirt.

 

It’s a very distinctly  _ fake _ laugh, but it’s all she can muster.

 

She backs herself onto the plush bench behind the upper railing behind the driver’s seat and leans back, thumping her head against the metal siding. The door behind Rhys shuts with a quiet snick as he reacquaints himself with the caravan. 

 

Now that she thinks about it, it’s probably been a little over a year since he’d seen the big yellow beast. They’d rescued the poor thing and fixed it up with Janey’s help, and it’s had so much work done to the inside that it hardly looks like the same vehicle anymore. It’s as if an interior designer came in and vomited  _ taste _ and  _ class _ all over it. She doesn’t like it.

 

But here’s the table they crowded around to play Bunkers and Badasses- where Rhys couldn’t make one decision as Bunker Master without being met with moans and groans and complaints about his awful storytelling skills. But he was the only one who could do it, who  _ knew how _ to do it, so they let him.

 

Here’s the only chair leftover from their flight to Helios- a sad, strange little homage to the man who’d occupied it once and then never again. Fiona can’t bring herself to sit there, even though she’d come to terms with Scooter’s death ages ago. She can’t pin it down- the heavy, aching feeling she gets when she looks at the chair for too long or thinks about his satellite orbiting Pandora.

 

And there’s the little gilded mirror with photos taped around the edges- of herself and Sasha as young girls, of a bearded Vaughn and a twinkly-eyed Cassius. Photos of Loader Bot and Gortys, August frowning next to Sasha, Athena and Janey standing silhouetted against a burning sunset. And a photo of Fiona and Rhys, sitting side by side at the Purple Skag. It’s certainly not poetic. It’s a surprise photo that’s just a bit blurry, and it’s not like Fiona’s even looking at the camera  _ anyway _ . She might have been looking at Rhys, but that’s besides the point.

 

The caravan’s changed since Rhys left, but there’s memories here- memories embedded so deep into the walls that even Fiona and her hammer couldn’t pry them out. There’s history here, wrought with pain and laughter and camaraderie. It’s just as familiar as it is unfamiliar, like an old home that’s been remodeled. 

 

Her laugh dies down and she wipes the tears from the corners of her eyes with the ruffled cuff of her sleeve. This is more excitement than she’s seen in months, and even though she’s less-than-pleased to see Rhys, she’s almost glad for the relief that comes with him. 

 

They might be enemies, but at least he’s familiar. It’s almost like moving away from home- you leave for a while, get homesick, get over it, but the feeling of returning to where you came from- it’s something that not many people on Pandora could say they’d ever enjoyed. Usually on Pandora, if you were moving out, it was because your village was being burned to the ground by a murderous psychopath that this godforsaken planet seemed to have very little shortage of.

 

Rhys is a knife through the thick fog of absolute  _ boredom  _ gracing her life, and she has to at least give him credit for coming back in the first place. 

 

“Rhys,” she says, and something yanks hard in her chest. “You’re joking.  _ Tell _ me you’re joking.”

 

Because she isn’t someone’s  _ date _ . The first boy she ever kissed was the same boy she robbed to get the money for her first hat. The first boy she ever  _ dated _ was mauled horrifically by skags. 

 

It’s not her fault, really. She’s just- bad luck. Trouble tends to ride on her coattails, and Rhys of  _ all _ people should know that. Of course, she’s the one who set off the EMP that started this whole mess to begin with. If Rhys’ stupid arm hadn’t shut down, if he wouldn’t have  _ dropped the Vault Key _ , she wouldn’t be here, sitting in her stupid caravan, turning over this awful conversation with a person she hasn’t seen in a year. 

 

But of course, she isn’t a stranger to dating. Just because she’s a seasoned grifter doesn’t mean she can’t treat herself from time to time, right? A hookup there, a blind date there.  _ Yeah _ , she usually robs the people she’s with as soon as she gets bored. And  _ yeah,  _ maybe it’s just about putting more money in her pocket. But she’d consider herself a solid six out of ten. A seven on a good day. 

 

But at the end of the day, she’s not a smooth-talking diplomat.

 

And she  _ certainly _ isn’t the arm-candy of the CEO of Atlas. 

 

She pushes her bangs out of her eyes. “I’m no genius, Rhys, but I don’t think you have to be very smart to know that me being your  _ date  _ would be a very bad idea.’

 

Rhys reaches up and rubs at his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I can’t take just  _ anyone _ , Fi. I need, uh, someone  _ experienced. _ ”

 

She snorts. “I’ve never even been to a  _ party, _ Rhys. Let alone a fancy one.” 

 

He shakes his head. “No, I mean-” he huffs. “I need someone who’s good with people.” He frowns. “I mean, you make a living out of reading people. I need that.” He crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at his feet, still clad in those horrendous boots.

 

Oh, well. It’s good to know his fashion taste hasn’t changed.

 

Or not.

 

“Rhys,” Fiona says, shaking her head. “I’m good at  _ lying _ to people. I read people because I need to know how badly they’ll react to being conned. It’s what keeps me alive. It’s not just- a party trick.” She shrugs. “I really don’t know how I’ll be able to help you.”

 

Rhys sighs. “Okay, let me just-” He blinks a few times, as if he’s resetting his own internal systems. “Okay.”

 

He uncrosses his arms and slides onto the bench across from Fiona, propping his elbows up on the table. “You know how bad I am at talking to people, right?” 

 

Yes. She does. 

 

“I just need you there for, uh. Support. To help me figure out the right kind of stuff to say, you know?” His cheeks are still dusted with red, as if he’s  _ still _ embarrassed to even be asking. But he leans back, his fingers tapping idly on the table. “Plus, you know. I can’t get in without a date.”

 

Fiona still isn’t sure how she can help him. “Would you  _ stop _ calling it that?” She shivers. “Call it a plus-one or something. Weirdo.”

 

Something foreign flickers across his features, but Fiona elects to ignore it. “I still can’t figure out why you need  _ me _ . You’re the CEO of Atlas, dude. Take Sasha. She’s just as good as I am at lying to people.” She shoots a finger gun at him. “Plus, she likes you more than I do. And she definitely isn’t prone to punching you whenever you inevitably make some stupid comment.”

 

Rhys cracks a small smile. “Sounds tempting.” And then he shrugs. “But I don’t wanna deal with August. You know how he is.”

 

Fiona groans. “ _ Don’t _ I. Oh my g-o-d.” She snorts. “Sometimes I think he’s jealous of me just because I’m her sister. He’s so weird.”

 

Rhys nods. “Which is exactly why I’m asking you. If it makes you feel any better, you were my last resort.”

 

Fiona grins, big and cheesy. “That makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Thank you, Rhys.”

 

Rhys lifts his hands submissively. “Hey, don’t thank me. Thank Yvette for turning me down. She said, and I quote, ‘No fucking thank you. I still haven’t finished spending my cut of the Vault money. Leave me alone.’” He shrugs, the beginnings of a smile on his face. “So I guess she was too busy.”

 

But then the smile drops. “You know how important this is to me, Fi. Kickstarting Atlas. Starting something  _ good _ . A- a company that won’t repeat Hyperion’s mistakes. As soon as we’re finished, I’ll bring you back here and get out of your hair. You can go your whole life without having to see my face again.”

 

He’s right, too. She knows  _ exactly _ how important this is to him. But something in her stomach twists and churns, and what might have been a playful mood quickly turns to ice. “You’re going to leave again?” She tilts her head, just enough to display her annoyance. “Just use me to get to the top and vanish for another year or two?”

 

Rhys levels his gaze at her, but she can’t bring herself to break the stare. She’s just as determined to hold her resolve as he is, but despite her best efforts, she can’t look into that burning gold eye without remembering the sacrifices he’d made to destroy Handsome Jack. To burn the company he’d loved to the  _ ground _ . 

 

“Fiona.” He says. “Don’t keep doing this. Don’t get mad at me for staying here and then get pissed off when I offer to leave. And I’m not  _ using _ you, Fiona.” His face flushes red and he rubs at the back of his neck, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. “We’ve always worked better as a team.” He groans. “ _ Don’t _ make me say it out loud, Fi.” 

 

She lifts a brow. “Say  _ what,  _ Rhys?”

 

He shuts his eyes and clamps his hand over his brow. “I...would feel…” He chokes out, chomping on the words as if he’d rather be eating bullets with a spork. He sighs hard, long enough to make it uncomfortable. Classic Rhys. “Muchbetterifyouweretherewithme.” His last words come out in a slipstream, bubbling from his mouth like water from a spring. 

 

It takes her a moment to translate, but once she does, her face splits into a grin. “Rhys, are you  _ nervous?! _ ” Her voice comes out in a shrill squeal. Rhys throws his arm over his eyes. 

 

“Shut  _ up _ , Fiona. God. This is why I don’t ever tell you anything.” 

 

She laughs again, but this time it isn’t fake. 

 

She knows as well as Rhys does that the two of them make a good team. An  _ excellent _ team. Fiona knows Rhys almost as well as she knows herself, and even though they bicker enough to drive someone insane, they’re far better together than they are apart. Those times during the mission on Helios where she hadn’t been quite sure of his whereabouts were some of the spookiest moments- and not because she cared about him, but because there were times when she felt like the only person in the world who’d understand her current plight was Rhys himself. 

 

She can’t be shocked when he brings it up on his own. There’s a  _ reason _ why they opened the Vault together. Why they’d picked up the Gortys core together. Why they’d been  _ kidnapped _ together. They’re  _ Rhys and Fiona _ . The universe had pushed them together for some divine reason. Why else do they keep coming back to one another?

 

Kinda dumb, right?

 

“Okay, okay.” She says, wiping her eyes. “I get it. I totally understand. Here’s the thing, though.” She winks. “I’m Pandoran. I’m probably banned from Eden-5 by default. I’m  _ also _ a wanted con-artist. So there’s that.”

 

Rhys frowns, and Fiona gets the distinct feeling that he hadn’t quite thought that part through. The only price he’d ever had on his head had been installed by Hyperion, and, well. That’s kind of shot. 

 

Fiona, however, is thoroughly installed in the ECHO-net. Even if she  _ did _ agree to go with him, she’d never get off the planet. Some son of a bitch would kill her before she got there or she’d be detained the moment she set foot on Eden-5. 

 

“We can figure it out,” he says, but his voice is so quiet that she barely believes it. “We’ll figure it out.” He says again, as if it will solidify and come true. “We always do.”

 

Fiona shakes her head. This time it’s her turn to cross her arms over her chest, and looking at Rhys makes her want to scream. He’s sitting with his hands tucked between his legs like a toddler, hunched over the table like he’s physically incapable of sitting up straight. 

 

Well, shit.

 

She has to apologize, doesn’t she? She’s been nothing but awful to him since he arrived fifteen minutes ago. Hell, she hadn’t even bothered to say  _ hello _ .

 

Might as well start there. 

 

“Hi, Rhys,” she starts with a sigh.

 

He blinks, sitting up. And then, slowly, like the sun breaking through the clouds on a rainy day, he smiles. Slow, easy, _gentle,_ as if he’s afraid if he smiles too hard or too quickly he’ll break. It’s the same smile that she’d come to enjoy when they’d spent all those days cramped in the back of the caravan. “Hi, Fi.” He says, leaning back into the bench. 

 

She lifts her eyebrows, frowning. “I guess I owe you an ap- apo-” She stops, biting her lip. 

 

“It’s okay,” Rhys prompts. “Take your time.” He lifts his hands defensively. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

 

She almost throws her hat at him, but she decides quickly enough that he’s not worth taking her hat off. There are two reasons Fiona takes her hat off- to shower and to sleep. And even then, the latter is subjective. 

 

She settles for sticking her tongue out at him. Less emotionally taxing, far more effective. But his smile only widens.

 

_ Bastard _ .

 

“An apology,” she finishes, nearly choking on the final word. “I’m...sorry.” 

 

She shrugs. “I was a shithead. I mean, not only here, but a year ago. When I told you to leave.” Now she can’t meet his eyes, instead staring at her hands clasped in her lap.  _ God _ . “I think about it all the time.” She huffs.

 

Fiona likes to consider herself a secretive person. It’s nothing personal, really. She just figures that the less people know about her, the less leverage they have against her. Talking about her feelings is as foreign to her as Eden-5. Something twists in her stomach and it feels suspiciously like vomit. God, is this what emotions feel like?

 

If it is, she doesn’t want them. 

 

“I was mean. I just-” She shakes her head again, because it’s all she can think to do. “I can’t understand why you’d stay here. Why you’d come back. You have- you have all of Eden-5. You have all of  _ Atlas _ sitting in the palm of your  _ stupid _ hand.”

 

She closes her eyes. “You’re better than Pandora.” And then- “You’re better than- than me. You don’t deserve this sandy armpit bitch planet that’s done nothing but try to kill you.”

 

There’s a shifting noise, and then a distinct dip in the cushion of the bench right next to her. Her eyes snap open, and suddenly all she can see is black fabric and the inky blue lines of a tattoo. “Rhys,” she mumbles, but it sounds weird and muffled- what with her face being mashed into his chest. His arms are clamped firmly around her waist, and try as she may to wriggle out of it, he’s got a robot arm and he certainly isn’t afraid to use it. 

 

“Accept it, Fiona. I’m hugging you. We’re hugging.”

 

“Shut up, Rhys.” She says, but it sounds like “Mfluh mfluh, fleece.” 

 

After a solid thirty seconds of struggling, she decides to take the opposite approach. 

 

She goes boneless. 

 

Rhys yelps and tightens his grip, which only makes it worse. And to make matters more difficult, he scoots backwards out of the bench, Fiona in tow. “Let it happen!” He barks, and she thrashes, grunting like a bullymong. 

 

Rhys’ arms never loosen, though, so she sighs and gets reluctantly to her feet. After a moment of steeling herself, her arms drift to his neck and she tugs him closer, for once letting him win. She’s doing just fine ( _ she’s comfortable, even _ ) until she starts noticing the tiny brown curls at the base of his neck, the whorls of blue ink cresting his collarbone, the tiny scar under his jaw where he’d been socked by Vasquez. 

 

Something twists in her stomach ( _ again _ .  _ God, does she need laxatives or something? _ ) and she peels herself away from him, clearing her throat. 

 

“Apology accepted?” She ventures, and Rhys nods, a smile glued to his face. 

 

“Stop being stupid, stupid.” She tells him, and he nods again. His grin never falters.

 

“Stupid.” She mutters for good measure. 

 

And then the door to the caravan bangs open. 

 

“Fiona, you will  _ never  _ believe what just-  _ RHYS _ ?!”

 

Fiona smothers a smile as Sasha bursts into the caravan, dark eyes blazing with excitement. She’d always had an easier time talking to Rhys, and she’d always managed to interact with him without feeling the urge to murder him viciously every ten minutes. 

 

As much as Sasha tries to hide it, Fiona knows better than anyone that her little sister had missed Rhys like the devil missed heaven. Fiona’s eyes squint shut in some kind of adoring smile as Sasha bursts into motion.

 

Clearly she and Sasha had differing opinions on Rhys’ return. Her little sister is in Rhys’ arms and crushing him in a hug before the two of them have time to process her presence, but Rhys at least looks like he’s  _ enjoying _ the attention. They’re only like that for a moment before August ducks into the caravan, his body hunched with fatigue. 

 

“Reese.” He says, and even though he  _ looks _ less than happy to see the newfound CEO of Atlas, Fiona can detect the hint of a smile in his voice. 

 

“Rhys,” Rhys corrects. “Er-huh-eese. Not  _ reeze _ .”

 

August nods knowingly, then maneuvers himself around Sasha in order to clap Rhys on the shoulder in a manly, bro-like way. Fiona stifles a snort and takes Rhys’ current preoccupation to her advantage by slipping away from the table. All they need now is Vaughn to complete the gang. Athena and Janey don’t count, Fiona thinks, because they hadn’t been there from the moment the Vault key deal went south. Sasha squeezes Rhys, then pushes him away from her, giddy smile melting into a frown.

 

“Where have you been? Fiona and I have been worried  _ sick _ about you.” Any fondness Fiona might have been feeling dissolves in an instant. Frantically, she makes a chopping motion across her throat, eyes widening.  _ Shut up, shut up, shut up! _

 

But it’s too late for that. Rhys turns, a shit-eating grin spreading over his features. Sasha crosses her arms over her chest. “Fiona  _ especially _ . You should hear the way she rants and raves about you at the Purple Skag. Always talking about how she  _ misses _ you but she doesn’t want you to come back.  _ God, _ I wish she’d just make up her mind.”

 

Fiona’s eyes are wide as saucers, now, and her cheeks are hotter than she’s ever felt them. Sasha shoots her a wink over Rhys’ shoulder and it’s all Fiona needs to know that Sasha’s  _ fully _ aware of what she’s doing. 

 

“Anyway!” Sasha says, bringing her hands together in a cheery clap. 

 

Rhys examines his hands as though he’s very interested in his nail beds. The five he does have, at least. “I’ve been...around.” He mutters. “Eden-5. Old Haven. The biodome.”

 

“Old Haven?” August wonders aloud. “You manage to clear out all the psychos?” 

 

Rhys nods, and he lifts his chin almost triumphantly. “Sure did. Athena helped out, but I did most of the heavy lifting.”

 

First of all, Athena hadn’t mentioned Old Haven. And second of all-

 

“ _ You _ did the heavy lifting?” Fiona asks incredulously. 

 

“What, like it’s so hard to believe?” Rhys counters. 

 

“It  _ is _ hard to believe, as a matter of fact. What kind of heavy lifting did you do?” 

 

Rhys looks up from his hands. “Reset all the security systems and hardwired them to react to DNA signatures. Anyone who works for Atlas is safe from the turrets. And, of course - you guys. Keeps the bandits and the psychos out. Athena was just-” He pauses. “The exterminator.”

 

He shrugs. “I mean, you guys are welcome at Atlas anytime. There’s even housing units in the Old Haven facility, so in case you guys ever get tired of the caravan, there’s plenty of room.” 

 

August chuckles lightly. “We don’t live here, Reese. Sasha and Fiona split their cuts of the Vault money and used it to invest in some...real estate. Hollow Point’s got some prime housing if you know where to look.”

 

Rhys, Sasha, and August launch into a conversation about investments and brokers that Fiona’s not following so she stands, heart thudding in her chest, and slides quietly out the door. The caravan’s parked just outside the entrance to Hollow Point, and the burning sun that never seems to relent on the Rust Commons East is sinking below the horizon and turning the sky magnificent shades of pink and purple. If she wasn’t on Pandora, she might have thought it was beautiful. Poetic. Something to write about, something to capture in a photo.

 

But she’s on Pandora, so a mental image will have to do. And besides, she probably wouldn’t get that great a picture anyway. Rakks are starting to circle in the distance, probably over some poor sap who tangled with bandits. Or maybe just a bandit himself. Either way, the demon-bird-dragon-thingies are shrieking with delight as they dive up and below the clouds. Maybe they’re just tormenting someone. Who knows.

 

Fiona makes a hard left around the caravan and rounds the corner of the entrance to Hollow Point. She’s lived here her entire life, and she’s a firm believer in the idea that everything keeps secrets- from people to homes to locations to animals.  _ Everything  _ keeps secrets- it’s only a matter of finding them out.

 

Hollow Point has its secrets, just like anything else. The staircase is one secret that she’d found long ago, even before she and Sasha had stumbled into Felix’s arms. The staircase starts at the base of the cave and winds its way up to a tiny ledge facing the sunset, hewn from the very stone of the mountain it crests. It’s narrow, enough that Fiona always has to watch her feet as she ascends, and it’s worn from several years of foot-traffic attributed to her and Sasha. She climbs the stairs, huffing with the effort ( _ but who can blame her? They’re  _ steep.) 

 

The stairs end on a flat outcrop furnished with a worn blue lawn-chair and a dusty old radio not unlike the one in the caravan. This little hideaway has served Fiona as a reprieve from conning, as a refuge, as a temporary home in the most dire situations. As she plops into the lawn chair and fixes her eyes on the sunset, she lets herself drift.

 

The first thing to come to her mind is the days she and Rhys spent walking with the stranger. Or, uh. With  _ Loader Bot _ . 

 

Even if she’d been furious with him, it had been somewhat intriguing to hear his side of everything. From the revenge plot to the mugging to the re-emergence of Handsome Jack- he’d shown a different side of himself, and Fiona had to wonder how many people she’d misjudged based on her own side of the story. If she had known how scared Rhys was of telling her- or  _ anyone _ , for that matter- about Handsome Jack, would she have treated him differently? Would she have been more understanding about the whole thing? Would she have tried to  _ help _ him instead of writing him off as another Hyperion stooge with a thirst for money and power?

 

Maybe. 

 

Probably not. 

 

She remembered the anguish on his face as he described tearing his own arm off to keep Jack from strangling him. The nervous laugh he’d given when he’d mentioned cutting out his head-port and his cybernetic eye with a shard of glass he’d pulled from the wreckage. She’d _ seen _ his severed arm. She’d  _ seen _ the discarded eye. It hadn’t really occurred to her what he’d had to do to get rid of Jack. What he’d have to  _ sacrifice _ to rid Pandora of that piece of shit.

 

Sometimes she doesn’t give Rhys enough credit for everything he did. For everything he  _ continues _ to do. Suddenly, she feels sick- like the very  _ least _ she can do for him is go to hs stupid party.

 

Even if that means going as his date.

 

Even if they’re still  _ enemies. _

 

As long as he doesn’t keep calling her his date, she thinks she can manage it. It’s only fair. And, after all, even if he  _ did _ call her his date, they weren’t  _ together _ , right? It scares her, she thinks, how the idea of her and Rhys as an  _ item _ doesn’t make her nervous. Doesn’t make her  _ uncomfortable. _

 

“It can’t be a date, right?” She wonders aloud, but the only answer she gets is the shriek of a rakk in the distance. She leans her cheek into her palm and sighs, shutting her eyes.

 

When she opens them again, the sun is gone and the moon, Elpis ( _ it still looks so  _ weird _ without Helios looming overhead _ ), is glowing violet in the sky. She stands abruptly, grunting and rubbing at her eyes as she picks her way carefully back down the cliffside. She’s gone up and down the steps so many times that she hardly needs to look anymore, but the darkness is daunting and she doesn’t have a light. It’s a relief when she finally reaches the bottom, but when she does, the caravan is nowhere to be seen. 

 

For a moment she’s worried, the skin along her arms prickling with gooseflesh. However, her gaze is drawn to the tire tracks in the dirt, distinct divots in the ground where the caravan was parked giving way to tread marks that lead back into the cave and into the light of civilization. Fiona slips her hands into her pockets and follows the tracks, appreciating her time alone. 

 

Civilization in a very  _ loose _ interpretation of the term. It’s no Eden-5, but it’s safer than most places on Pandora to begin with. Mostly because everyone minds their own business. People who mind their own business tend not to get shot as much. 

 

The walk to the Purple Skag isn’t far, and this time Tector lets her in with a smile and a weird little bow that Fiona smiles very awkwardly at. She’s no stranger to the fact that Scooter’s half-brother has a bit of a crush on her, so she slips past him with a forced chuckle and scurries inside the bar with a bit more fervor than is absolutely necessary. 

 

Rhys, Sasha, and August are at the bar. 

 

More specifically,  _ Rhys _ is at the bar, and Sasha and August are  _ behind _ it, pouring drinks and cleaning like their lives depend on it. Strange, considering that there’s only two whole customers on either end of the facility, both passed out cold on their respective tables. 

 

And then her eyes land on the shorter figure next to Rhys, clad in dirt-brown tatters and leather scraps. His hair, gathered into a knot at the back of his head, is a dead giveaway to his identity. She smiles. “Vaughn,” She crows, and both he and Rhys spin around on their stools. 

 

“Fiona!” Vaughn shouts, leaping from his stool. “Man, it’s good to see you. How you been? Still kickin’ ass? Takin’ names?” He throws his arms out and she gathers him in a reluctant hug. “Sasha says you’ve been quite the handyman recently.”

 

Fiona shrugs. “I’m good with hammers,” she admits, and her gaze catch’s Rhys’. God, he looks dumb. His eyes are  _ twinkling _ . What a fucking dumbass. She hates him.

 

Vaughn drifts back to his seat and Fiona takes her spot beside Rhys. “I might have you come work on Helios,” he says thoughtfully. “Hyperion workers are surprisingly hard to teach basic living skills to. You’d think they’d been born yesterday by the way they get things done. And the  _ questions,  _ oh  _ God, _ the questions.” Vaughn presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’ve got a headache just thinking about it.”

 

Fiona laughs. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full, V.” 

 

Sasha sets a shot in front of Vaughn and he tosses it back like it’s soda. “ _ Tell _ me about it.” And then- “ _ Christ _ . I forgot how bad the alcohol is here.”

 

August grunts. “Alcohol that  _ I’m  _ paying for, so shut up and accept it, Tiny.”

 

Vaughn lifts his eyebrows, motioning not-so-subtly at August to Rhys. “I think  _ someone _ forgot that he’s not an antagonist anymore.” 

 

Rhys covers his mouth with his hand to secret away a smile, but Fiona doesn’t miss it, and neither does August. 

 

The blond-haired bounty hunter narrows his eyes. “We can’t all be in positions of leadership, Sean.” He says, butchering Vaughn’s name. “Also, is that even your first name? Is that your last name or what? It can’t be a first name, can it?”

 

Rhys flips his palm over and brings up the ECHO-net, brow furrowing as he scans through a few files. 

 

“Breaking news, everyone. Vaughn’s name is  _ just _ Vaughn.” 

 

Vaughn smacks Rhys’ metal arm out of the way. “Oh, like  _ Rhys _ is any better.” His voice pitches into a high falsetto. “A damsel in distress says  _ ‘Oh, dear, my lord and savior with a badass metal arm, what’s your name so I can remember you in my autobiography _ ?’ and you say, ‘Rhys’.” He laughs heartily. “What, like James Bond?” He slaps his knee. “ _ ‘Rhys, just Rhys _ ’,” His voice deepens. “God, what a turn-off.”

 

This time Rhys smacks Vaughn across the arm, and Fiona shakes her head, tossing back a shot. This is  _ not  _ something she’d missed about living in the caravan.

 

And then, suddenly, as if she’s unable to withhold it any longer, Fiona blurts, “ _ I’lldoit _ .”

 

She eyes Rhys, who tilts his head. “Yeah,” she confirms. “I’ll go with you.”

 

Vaughn frowns. “Go where? What?” 

 

Rhys swivels to face Vaughn. “Fiona’s my  _ date. _ ” She can’t see his face, but she can hear the grin in his voice, and mortfication threatens to overcome her.

 

Vaughn’s eyes go wide as dinner plates. He leaps off his stool, whooping like a fool. “I’ve been waiting my entire life for this  _ very _ moment. Nobody move. Everybody  _ shut up _ . I need to cherish this.”

 

Rhys’ smile falls, and he turns to Fiona, confused. She shrugs, just as lost as he is. 

 

Vaughn pauses in his celebration. “So are you guys...you know?” He points first at Rhys, then at Fiona, wiggling his eyebrows.

 

All at once, Fiona realizes what he’s insinuating. 

 

“EUGH!  _ GOD _ no. Never! Nuh-uh. Not happening.”

 

Rhys scoots his stool away from her. “Vaughn, are you insane?”

 

Vaughn blinks. Once, twice. And then- “Is that really something you’re asking me right now in this day and age? I’m a single father of two-hundred adult babies. I’m about as sane as anyone in my position would be right now.”

 

Rhys considers this. “Fair enough,” he mutters. 

 

Fiona makes a face, wrinkling her nose. “ _ Anyway _ ,” She interjects, eager to change the subject. “Rhys still hasn’t told anyone what he’s been up to.”

 

“Uh, incorrect,” Vaughn says, and Fiona very nearly screams. “He’s told  _ me _ stuff.” It takes an incredible amount of self control to keep from reaching around Rhys and smacking Vaughn, but thankfully Sasha recognizes her vehement irritation. 

 

“Luckily,” Sasha says, shooting Vaughn a look that he clearly doesn’t process, “We’ve got time and a  _ whole _ lot of drinks. Assuming Fiona doesn’t drink the rest of us into the ground.”

 

“Speak for yourself!” August quips. He wipes down the bar with a towel that doesn’t look all that clean to begin with. “I’ve got a  _ very _ high alcohol tolerance.”

 

Fiona almost smiles. That’d be a  _ sight _ . She and August trying to out-drink one another would be like watching two fish see who can hold their breath underwater the longest. Pointless and  _ incredibly _ boring, especially with the watered-down piss that they call  _ beer _ at the Purple Skag. 

 

“Either way,” Fiona compromises, “Nobody but  _ Vaughn _ knows what Rhys has been up to. Thank you for your input, Vaughn.” 

 

He sketches a bow and Fiona smothers a smile. 

 

Rhys curls his fingers around his glass. The condensation sweats onto the metal plating of his hand and Fiona almost wants to ask him if he’ll short-circuit, but her train of thought is cut short by his voice. “Well,” he starts. “I’ve been here and there. Atlas used to have a  _ big _ presence on Eden-5 as an arms dealer. Before, uh.” He makes a vague gesture in the air. “Athena, y’know.” 

 

They all nod.  _ Yes _ , they know. For the love of  _ God _ , stop  _ bringing it up. _

 

“I’ve been trying to rebrand, so to speak. More about technology and redistribution, less about guns. That’s why it’s taken me so long to get my footing, I guess.” He shrugs. “Nobody wants an Atlas that doesn’t do guns.”

 

Fiona frowns. “So all those revolvers and guns cropping up in loot crates-  _ Atlas _ tech- that’s not you?” 

 

Rhys shakes his head. “Don’t think so. Now that I’m gaining ground I think people are ditching their guns. They’re not as  _ rare _ as they used to be. Redistribution and whatnot.”

 

Fiona stares at her glass, lips clamped shut. 

 

“Makes sense,” Sasha says. She taps the bar with her fingertips. “But it’s  _ Atlas _ tech. Not like it’s outdated, right?”

 

“Actually,” He mutters. “It kind of is. A lot of it is still good. But the stuff that  _ isn’t _ good? Those are usually prototypes. Work in progress stuff that was looted from the Crimson Lance when they went down.”

 

August props his forearms on the bar. “Speaking of,” he says, lifting his brows. The ring in his nose glints in the bar’s dim lighting. “You gonna start a new division? Recruit everyone who went into hiding?”

 

Rhys purses his lips, and in that instant Fiona knows- like she knows her name, like she knows  how to lie- that this is something he’s debated with himself for a long time. And judging by the smatterings of silver hair at his temples, she knows it’s been a point of stress. 

 

“I don’t know, man.” He finally says, his voice quiet. “Big bodies of military power like the Lance have never ended well. Corporations aren’t meant to organize stuff like that. I mean, it doesn’t take a business degree to know that. It’s too hard to control. Money is an issue, yeah, and once something like that gets out of hand it’s just- too hard to devote money to  _ fixing _ it when you’ve got so many other things to run.”

 

He looks so distressed by it that Fiona almost wants to reach out and grab his hand, but then she thinks that’s  _ stupid _ . 

 

He cards his fingers through his hair and shrugs. “It’s been a talking point. Definitely not very high on my list right now.”

 

August nods, then slides him a fresh drink.

 

Rhys leans back, and suddenly he looks  _ exhausted _ , fatigue weighing down every inch of his body. Fiona slaps her hands against the bar. 

 

“It’s late! Why don’t we- head back to the house and get some rest. Discuss this exciting business in the morning when we’re all fully awake.” 

 

Sasha nods. “Sure thing. We’re the last ones in here anyway. I’m sure we could close early.”

 

She and August disappear into the back room to organize and restock while Fiona, Vaughn, and Rhys step into the cool cavern air and make their way back to the caravan. It’s parked a ways off behind the bar, and by the time she’s settled behind the wheel and Rhys and Vaughn have hunched themselves at the bench, Sasha and August are joining them, looking as tired as Fiona feels.

 

August sits down with Rhys, quiet and awkward as always, his eyes on his lap. Fiona watches as Rhys takes notice and then proceeds to pull something up on the display on his palm. He shows August something with wide gestures of his free hand, and Fiona almost wants to go over and ask what they’re looking at when Sasha plops down beside her, butt against the dashboard. Fiona knocks the clutch and puts the caravan in gear, carefully pulling out of the alley behind the bar.

 

The whole time, though, she can feel Sasha’s eyes on her, and finally it gets to be too much. “ _ What _ ?” She snaps. And then, softer, “What?” She keeps her eyes on the road, careful not to turn any Hollow Point citizens into roadkill. 

 

Sasha crosses her arms over her chest. “You’ve been acting weird ever since Rhys got back. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were  _ swooning _ .” 

 

Fiona’s foot slips on the brake and the caravan gives a mighty lurch. A quick glance over her shoulder tells her that Rhys and Vaughn have both tumbled from their bench and August is busy snorting at them, giggling like an idiot.

 

Fiona scowls at Sasha. “Of course not.” And then- “I just. I don’t know. The gang hasn’t been complete without him.”

 

Sasha doesn’t look convinced, but she nods anyway. The caravan resumes its steady motion, and Fiona keeps her eyes glued to the road. It’s not as if she’s ever been that careful a driver, but it’s an excuse to keep from looking at Sasha. She feels like she’s  _ lying _ , somehow, even though she knows she isn’t. 

 

She’s not usually one to lie to her sister. 

 

Sasha lays a gentle hand on Fiona’s shoulder. “Okay, girl. Whatever. Just warn me before you two start having hot, passionate animal sex. I wanna make sure I put my headphones in.”

 

Fiona’s face burns red and she can barely keep her head up. “Shut  _ up _ , Sash. What the  _ hell. _ ”

 

Sasha barks out a laugh and leaves Fiona to mull over that scenario. When she looks back, her little sister is next to Vaughn, and the two of them look like they’re scheming. Which  _ can’t _ be good. But she doesn’t have much time to worry about it, because the caravan sidles up to their house on the outskirts of Hollow Point. 

 

It’s backed up to the cave wall, squat but classy. It’s made of dark wood and pale tiling, a gift from Vaughn and the Children of Helios. It’s not a mansion, not by Pandoran standards, but it’s far bigger than anything Sasha and Fiona had grown up with. It’s got  _ two _ bedrooms instead of just one, and it’s got a  _ whole _ kitchen. Not just a hot-plate with a singular pan. 

 

The passengers in the caravan unload and Fiona pulls it around to park it, effectively giving her enough time to work out some of the cherry-colored blush that’s overtaken her face. She adjusts her hat, pulls down the sleeves of her coat, and shakes her head. All she needs is a good night’s sleep, and she’ll be right as rain in the morning. No worries, she tells herself. No worries at all.

 

It’s clear that she’s become a  _ master _ at speaking too soon.

 

She underestimated Vaughn and Sasha, clearly, because by the time she gets inside, Vaughn is camped out on the couch and Sasha’s wearing a knowing smile that Fiona wants to smack. Of  _ course _ they’d pull this shit. Of  _ course _ they would.

 

Two beds in the house. One for Sasha and August, one for Fiona. A couch for Vaughn.

 

So  _ where _ is Rhys supposed to sleep?

 

_ Shit. Shitshitshit. _

 

Fiona wants to curl into a ball and  _ die _ . It’d be easier than this- dealing with her little sister’s antics and Vaughn’s stupid, shit-eating grin. 

 

Sasha bids a cheery goodnight to everyone, standing on her toes to peck Rhys on the cheek. And then she and August are off to their room, Sasha shooting a wink at Fiona over her shoulder. Fiona wants to scream, to smack something, but she stays quiet instead.

 

“You’re going…” she grits out, turning to Rhys, “To share my r-” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “My room. With me.”

 

Vaughn leans back on the couch and shuts his eyes, letting out a very convincing snore. 

 

“The couch is taken.” Fiona very nearly growls. She’ll give Vaughn a piece of her mind tomorrow when she’s not contemplating feeding herself to a rakk hive. 

 

Rhys nods, like he’s not weirded out at  _ all _ , and he follows her at a safe distance as she leads him to the only other room in the house. She doesn’t have pajamas for him to wear, which she tells him with her eyes firmly glued to her feet, so he compromises by slipping his jacket, vest, and shoes off and placing them carefully by the door. 

 

And then he just- stands there, as if he’s contemplating just laying down on the floor.

 

Fiona almost laughs. “Get in bed, idiot. It’s not going to bite you.”

 

“Yeah,” he says, lifting the covers with his metal hand as he crawls onto the bed. “But you might.” He slides himself all the way to the corner of the bed, the side that’s pressed against the wall, as if he’s trying to put as much distance between himself and the edge of the bed as he can. 

 

Fiona shucks off her jacket and shoes and closes herself inside her closet, quickly changing into a cotton shirt and long gray pants. She’s only in there for a moment before she comes back out, but Rhys already seems to have made himself comfortable, the blanket on the bed yanked all the way up his chin. She almost has to laugh- he’s too  _ tall _ for her bed. His feet are quite literally hanging off the end.

 

Fiona sets her hat on the table next to her side and shoves at Rhys with one hand while she climbs under the covers. God, it’s  _ hot _ . Has her bed always been this warm, or is it just Rhys?

 

She flips the lamp off and the room is engulfed in darkness. Groping under the covers, she finds the corded mass of his flesh arm, and sure enough, his skin is  _ burning _ hot. She yanks her hand away and sits up. “ _ Christ _ , Rhys. Are you sick? Why are you so  _ hot _ ?”

 

“You know,” he mutters, “I’d imagined you asking that question in much different circumstances.” But before she has a chance to get a word in edgewise, he continues, “It’s just my arm. The robot one. Surprisingly enough, having a literal machine installed in your body tends to raise your overall body temperature quite a bit.” She feels the bed shift under his weight, and she wonders if he’s looking at her or if he’s facing the wall. “The only problem I have with it is that I don’t ever know when I’m  _ actually _ sick.”

 

Fiona frowns, then shakes her head. 

 

The silence between them is thick enough to cut with a knife. 

 

And then- “This isn’t  _ that _ bad, is it?” 

 

Fiona wrenches her eyes open. “What do you mean?”

 

Rhys’ voice seems softer in the dark somehow. “I mean you and me sharing a bed. I mean,  _ I  _ don’t feel weird about it. You, however, looked like you were about to throw up when you realized I had to sleep with you.”

 

And then he swallows, hard. 

 

“I mean, not sleep  _ with _ you with you, more like. With you. Like you and me- in the- in the same bed, hah, uh.” 

 

Fiona snorts. “Don’t hurt yourself, Rhys.” She rolls onto her side to face him. “Also, no. This isn’t as horrible as I was imagining, so thank you for that.”

 

And suddenly she feels a weight on her face, the hot palm of his hand against her cheek sending a shiver through her body. She freezes in place, afraid to move a muscle.

 

“I missed you, girl.” He mutters, his voice sluggish. “You’re always so mean to me, but I missed you.”

 

Fiona fights a smile and lets her eyes slip shut. 

 

They lay like that for a while until Rhys’ hand slides down her cheek and onto her neck, then finally coming to rest on the bed beside her as his sleep deepens. 

 

The last thing that Fiona thinks before she follows him into his dreams is that Rhys has got himself a  _ date _ . 

 

No, wait.

 

A plus-one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe, thoughts? Leave comments or hit me up on my twitter @gortysprojects!


	3. patch it up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goodness gracious... i know it's been a while and i'm SO sorry it took me so long but here's the best i could do with the time i had available... i'm really sorry it's so much shorter than my other chapters, but i figured y'all had waited long enough and i could at LEAST give you this... please don't hate me too much, and enjoy, i guess?

Rhys wakes to the sound of an alarm. 

It’s an urgent one, a continuous  _ wah! wah! _ noise that makes him want to cut his ears off with a rusty knife and bury them several yards beneath the biodome. 

He grumbles softly, rubbing his temple with the heel of his hand. It takes him a few moments to realize that the alarm he’s hearing is only internal, a shrill tone he’d set to wake him up for work, and a few quick blinks effectively quiets his wailing cybernetics. 

The silence in his head settles in like a drowsy feline and Rhys puffs a quick breath of relief. Work can wait. He  _ is  _ the CEO, after all. The throbbing in his temples subsides and exhaustion begins to creep its way back into each of his limbs.

It isn’t until his eyes begin to slide shut again that he notices a very distinct weight on his chest and a spreading dampness against his shoulder. He spares a glance down and something buried in the cavity of his ribs goes fuzzy- Fiona’s sprawled across the bed, her head tucked into the space where his shoulder meets his armpit. 

She’s drooling on him, which he assumes is the damp feeling, and to fight his own oncoming revulsion he has to remind himself that he’d done the same- albeit  _ worse _ \- to her. One of her legs is hooked between his, her arm slung over his chest. She’s on her stomach and he’s on his back.

This is a recipe for disaster.  _ Disaster _ !

Okay.

_ Okay. _

_ Think. _

They’d gone to bed together last night, knowing there weren’t enough beds for everyone in the house. That was fine. He was  _ pretty _ sure they’d fallen asleep a respectable distance apart, so  _ this _ must have happened, what, while they were sleeping? How long had she been on  _ top _ of him? 

His tongue turns to cotton and he thinks he can taste his own fear in the back of his throat. If she wakes up with her head on his shoulder she’ll probably stab him in the neck with the pen on the bedside table. Or  _ worse _ . 

How is he going to fix this? 

And why is he so  _ worried  _ about it?

Rhys stares at the ceiling, unblinking, every inch of his body alight with panic.  _ Don’t freak out,  _ he furiously tells himself, repeating it over and over in his head like some kind of twisted mantra. 

But judging by the frantic thud of his heart against his ribcage, it’s far too late for that sentiment. He’s _freaking_ _out_. 

Back at the Vault, when he’d told her he was interested in someone else, he’d tacked on his  _ sexy face _ in an attempt to silently communicate to Fiona that the aforementioned someone else was  _ her _ . Right? The pursed lips, the tiny quirk of his eyebrows. He’d spoken with his  _ eyes _ . She couldn’t have missed it, right? Women are, like,  _ masters _ at communicating with their eyes.  _ Right _ ?

Either she hadn’t gotten the hint, or she’d chosen to ignore him. He couldn’t blame her.

She’d delivered an effective rejection and he’d spent the past  _ year _ wondering what he could have done to earn back her favor. Money? No. A new gun?  _ Hell _ no. She wouldn’t let him touch the Roshambo with a sixteen foot pole. He’d even bought her a new outfit- a smart-looking blue coat with white cuffs that matched her hat, but he’s not sure she’s ever even worn it.

Fiona had sent him away with a snarl and had welcomed him back with nothing less than a death threat.

_ Classic _ . In all honesty, it’s the exact kind of treatment he’d come to expect from her, so it doesn’t quite bother him like it might have when he’d first met her- when she was just a con artist and he was just a middle manager. It’s in her  _ nature _ to be the way she is. Born on Pandora, raised in a cave. It makes  _ sense _ .

But  _ damn _ , she’s frustrating. And he’s hopelessly, recklessly, irrevocably, head-over-heels crazy about her. 

Rhys has had crushes before, yeah. He might even be what one would call a  _ compulsive crusher _ . A crush a day keeps the skags away, yeah? 

One minute it’s Vaughn and the next it’s Sasha and then it’s August and then he can hardly discern what’s real and what’s just simple infatuation. He loves too deeply and too easily. He loves to a  _ fault _ . 

Maybe he just latches on to anyone who gives him the time of day. Maybe it’s a compulsory need for companionship spurned by a childhood of  _ not-good-enoughs _ and  _ not-one-of-us’s.  _ Hah.  _ That’ll  _ be it. Hah. Not that it matters. Not that it’s  _ relevant _ . Suppression. Yes. Good. 

Either way, it happens far too often to be normal and with far too much fervor to be classified as anything other than acute infatuation.

But Fiona- she’s  _ different _ . He’s never had a crush last this long. And he’s  _ certainly _ never shared a bed with someone he wasn’t already dating.

Once he manages to slow his breathing, he casts his gaze back down. He needs to assess the situation with a level-head and a logical outlook. Empathy is not the way to go right now.

Fiona looks  _ peaceful _ when she’s asleep, no trace of that ever-present scowl or the crushing weight of sadness and anger that comes along with being  _ Pandoran _ . Her shoulders are relaxed- sunken, not by pain or despair, but by utter serenity. Trapped in a dreamscape so different from Pandora and Hollow Point that her body has physically let her go. Her lips are parted just slightly and Rhys catches a glimpse of her straight, pearly-white teeth. 

Rhys frowns, something hot spreading from his chest to the pit of his belly. He hopes he doesn’t have to vomit. Curse his weak stomach. 

Quickly looking back towards the ceiling, he squeezes his eyes shut, lips wrenched together in a grimace.  _ Stop freaking out! _ He tells himself. Again. 

He needs to solve the problem before she wakes up. He can either try to go back to bed ( _ impossible _ ) or he can try to jimmy his way out from beneath her without disturbing her sleep. He’d love nothing more than to doze off again, but he doesn’t know if he can quite handle the inevitable scramble she’ll do when she realizes she’d  _ cuddled _ him. She’d squawk and tumble out of the bed ( _ he can see it in his mind’s eye _ ) and he’d be left wondering why exactly she was so eager to get rid of him. Better to get rid of himself before she does it for him.

Rhys’ gaze is drawn to Fiona once more, and using his ECHO-eye to scan her vitals, he confirms that yes, her name is Fiona, yes, she’s a Vault Hunter and a registered citizen (outlaw) of Hollow Point. 

He knows she hates it- being scanned- probably more than anything else he does, but at this point all Rhys is banking on is how deep she is within her circadian rhythm. If she’s on the verge of waking, he may well just stay right where he is and try not to let her rejection cut him deep enough to hurt. But if he’s still got some time, well. He might as well give it a shot. 

His eye whirrs and clicks as it delves into the recesses of her brain. Rhys has never been quite sure how the mechanics of the scanning work, and he’s never truly cared enough about the workings of his eye to learn about it. It’s connected to the ECHOnet, of course, but other than that his best guess is heat signatures and DNA readings. 

The only time he’d ever had to worry about it was when he’d fashioned a new eye for himself- re-installation had been a horror show with enough blood to constitute a slasher movie, and he’d not thought about his eye outside of basic scans since. There’s a shrill beep inside his head, and a chart alongside a scan of Fiona’s brain pings to the forefront of his vision:

  
  


**CIRCADIAN RHYTHM: STAGE FOUR.**

  
  


Rhys squints. So, deep sleep?

Like,  _ deep _ sleep? 

He has  _ no _ idea what the stages mean.

After a short search on the ECHOnet, he deems it safe enough to try to wiggle his way out of this one.  _ Safe _ being a relative term, of course.

He frowns and dismisses the popup chart. Fiona had never been a heavy sleeper to  _ begin _ with. She couldn’t  _ afford _ to be a heavy sleeper. Even if she  _ was _ in some sort of dreamscape he’d never be able to wedge himself out of the bed without somehow disturbing her. 

Rhys isn’t in the most opportune position right now. He’d wrongfully taken the side of the bed closest to the wall. He can’t just slide himself out from under her because his shoulder is already pressed flush against the bricking and his hip is centimeters from doing the same. Fiona is currently occupying the space between Rhys and his freedom, which leaves the only way out at Rhys’ feet. 

Okay, Rhys,  _ think _ .  _ How can you get out of this without causing problems? _

His left leg is thoroughly trapped by Fiona’s, but his right is free to kick around. He nudges at the bedsheet with his toe, testing his mobility, then gently pushes it down towards the end of the mattress. 

Rhys freezes when Fiona lets out a slow, contented sigh. His mouth pulls into a deep grimace when she nuzzles farther into his shoulder and her arm tightens around his chest. The risk of facing her wrath almost seems a worthy price to pay for- whatever  _ this _ is. 

That strange, unrelenting warmth blooms from Rhys’ chest and lances all the way down to his toes. He chalks it up to adrenaline- fear, of what she’d do if she found herself face-deep in his chest.

Rhys sucks in a breath and slowly, agonizingly, he shimmies his way  _ down _ . Towards the foot of the bed, towards  _ freedom _ . Her legs are easy enough to escape. The leg trapped beneath hers slides up in a jerk towards his chest so he’s lying in a jackknife position. His knee goes up, then back down again. Now  _ his _ leg is on top. 

A drop of sweat rolls down his temple and buries itself in his hair. He swallows hard. Step one. Easy enough.

Fiona lets out another sigh, and Rhys’ cheeks heat. He shakes his head. Focus.  _ Focus _ .

Propping himself up on his forearms, he lifts his rear up and away from the bed. He needs to figure out how to slide out from under her arm without touching her  _ legs.  _ He feels like a character from those Mission: Impossible movies he used to watch as a kid, bending and contorting his body to keep from touching those telltale red lasers. 

And  _ nothing _ good ever comes from touching the lasers. 

Pushing himself into some sort of misguided crab-walk, he slides forwards, the foot of the bed growing closer by the moment. Fiona’s arm slides from his chest to his chin, passing over his forehead then plopping back down onto the bed once he’s wriggled himself down far enough.

Each move he makes is agonizingly slow, his only mission to be as deliberate and as delicate as possible -- and by the time he’s done, he almost wants to pat himself on the back as he shimmies out from his place by the wall and lands safely on the floor adjacent. 

Rhys pops up, straight-backed and jittery, executing a series of excited fist-pumps as he scrambles to grab his clothes and  _ get out _ . 

Once he’s safely in the hallway, he presses his back to the wall and cards his fingers through his hair. His shirt is clinging to his back with a cold sweat and his hair feels vaguely damp, as if he’d just recently walked through a shower of mist. He sticks out his tongue.  _ Ew _ . Who knew a girl could make him so nervous?

As he walks towards the kitchen, his coat and his vest slung over his arm, his steps grow sluggish and detached. Vaughn is sprawled on the couch, conked out exactly where Rhys had left him the night before. 

His walk from Fiona’s bedroom to the kitchen almost feels like a walk of shame- slinking like a burglar away from a one-night stand that never really happened. He almost feels guilty, almost feels ashamed. Like he shouldn’t have ever been here to begin with. 

After he sets his boots down by the couch and sticks his coat and vest on a chair in the front room, he moves to the kitchen, driven by a growling stomach and a mean craving for a  _ real _ breakfast. 

Ever since becoming CEO he’d practically  _ lived _ in the biodome. Drakefruit had been a welcome treat for a while, but it wasn’t  _ breakfast _ . And it certainly wasn’t sustainable. Between the biodome and the countless hotels on Eden-5, a home-cooked meal certainly sounded good to Rhys- and he doubted Fiona and Sasha would mind if he whipped up a quick breakfast for the five of them.

Trailing towards the fridge, he decides on six eggs and a variety of meats that he throws into a pan. He’s surprised his clattering in the kitchen doesn’t wake Vaughn, whom he can see dozing from his vantage in the kitchen.

The stove sizzles and pops as the grease from the meat (skag, maybe?) sends a stunningly  _ delicious _ aroma drifting through the cool air of the little brick house. It’s not too long after he begins cooking that Fiona herself wanders into the doorway, looking  _ adorably _ exhausted ( _ god, what is  _ wrong  _ with him? _ ) in her pajamas. Her hair is flattened on one side, and when she drifts towards him to examine his handiwork, he ruffles it up with his free hand. She doesn’t seem to mind, her brow creasing as she leans her cheek against his arm. 

“So...tired…” She mumbles.

Rhys nods. “I bet. When did you finally get to bed?”

Fiona shrugs. “Ehh. Mm.”

He pokes at one of the strips of meat with a pair of tongs. “Eloquent,” he remarks. “So much emotion in so few words.”

She might be half-asleep, but at least she knows ( _ roughly _ ) when to throw a punch. Her knuckles brush his bicep, just barely, and Rhys laughs. “Owww,” he groans, as if he’s humoring an infant.

Vaughn stirs on the couch, letting out a groan as he stretches. Rhys winces as Vaughn’s bones pop loud enough for him to hear over the crackle of the grease. 

“Yikes, Vaughn,” Rhys says. “You good?”

Vaughn sits up, rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses. “Peachy,” He mutters. “Just peachy.”

Rhys turns a strip of meat in the pan, suddenly painfully aware of Fiona’s ear against his shoulder. The weight of her body slung across his own is still too fresh in his mind for him to retain some semblance of sanity- it’s as if when he slid himself out of the bed she stayed with him, like- like some kind of memory foam pillow. 

But it could also be the drool she left on his ribs.

Even so, he takes a tiny step away from the con artist. His movements are nothing drastic, impossible to be mistaken for anything but a natural  _ human  _ response to physical contact, but when her head suddenly meets open air, she gifts him with a frown so achingly  _ upset _ that he’s almost tempted to take her in his arms and physically absorb her into his body. 

Whoa...weird. 

Either way, she seems to get over it quicker than he does. He’s busy pondering whether throwing himself headfirst into a Rakk Hive would be a badass way to die when Fiona shrugs, shaking herself like a sleepwalker rousing from some kind of bad dream. 

She yawns,  _ loudly _ , then lifts her arms over her head in a stretch not unlike the one Vaughn had executed only moments before. 

This time, though, Rhys catches the flash of her hipbone, a smooth curl of pale skin under her arching ribcage. Sucking in a heavy breath through his teeth, he suddenly becomes far more interested in the food he’s making, counting up and down from ten in his head in a feeble, tenderhearted attempt to block the con artist from his mind. 

He’s so focused, in fact, that when Sasha reaches around him and snatches a piece of meat from the pan, he almost doesn’t notice until the resulting  _ massive  _ grease bubble pops against his flesh hand.

He yelps and pulls it back, pain shooting like lightning up his arm. Sasha is gnawing at the meat, fingers wet with grease. Rhys sticks the burned skin of his hand in his mouth and sucks on it, brows knitting together. “What the  _ hell _ , Sasha?”

Vaughn hoots from his spot on the couch. “How- how are you doing that? That’s  _ fresh _ from the pan!” 

Sasha grins around a mouthful of food. “High pain tolerance. Also, I’m hungry.”

Rhys takes his hand out of his mouth. “That is absolutely insane.  _ Never _ do that again.” The skin just below his thumb is red and agitated, a puckered burn already forming. Nothing time won’t fix, but it hurts like a  _ bitch _ . He’s about to pop his hand back into his mouth when Fiona grabs his wrist. 

“Quit  _ sucking  _ on it, idiot. You’re just going to make it worse.” She motions to an amused Sasha, then to the pan of food. “Come finish this.” She turns. “Rhys, come with me.”

He can’t manage to get a word in edgewise before she’s tugging him back down the hallway and into their small bathroom. “Don’t be too angry with Sasha,” Fiona says as she digs through the medicine cabinet. “She pulls shit like that  _ all _ the time. I don’t think she realizes how irritating it is. Ever since that doohickey brought her back to life she’s had a weird thing with pain tolerance.” She seems to find what she’s looking for, because she lets out a little ‘ah!’ and snaps the cupboard shut.  

And then she gives him a funny look, her brows lifting. “Or maybe it was just your magical phoenix tears.”

He almost wants to slap her, but luckily his only human hand is out of commission. Slapping her with his cybernetic arm would be like hitting her with a lead pipe. Not an enjoyable time for either of them. 

Rhys stands idly as she hoists herself onto the bathroom counter, a roll of gauze tucked neatly into her palm. She pats the counter between her legs, and smothering all thoughts of- of  _ that _ , Rhys scoots himself forwards, planting himself a safe distance away. 

She takes his fingers and examines the burn. It’s round, about the size of her pinky finger, and it takes up the space on the side of his hand between his wrist and the first knuckle of his thumb. The skin is red and angry, and when Fiona tilts his hand into the light, it looks far worse than it actually feels. Or maybe it feels far worse than it looks. Either way, it’s gross. Grease burns are a  _ bitch _ .

“So,” She says, unscrewing a small container of  _ god-knows-what _ and setting the cap into her lap. She dips her fingers into the container and when she removes them, they’re covered in a cloudy white film. By Rhys’ best guess, it’s an ointment. 

“Atlas.” She finishes. “Tell me about that. Why do you need me to go with you?”

For a moment, he’s content to watch her spread the ointment onto the burn, calloused fingers butterfly-light against his hand. The ointment is almost immediately soothing, a chill spreading through his hand. 

Come to think of it, he’d always imagined holding her hand in a  _ far _ different light. 

“I already told you,” He mutters, staring hard at his own wrists. He can’t bring himself to look at her. “Crowd control.”

Her fingers skitter to a halt, and he can practically  _ feel _ the amusement radiating from her figure. “Why do you  _ really _ need me to go with you?”

It takes him a moment to realize that she’s staring a hole into the top of his head, so he levels his gaze to her own. “I, uh-” Why is he  _ panicking? _ “Um. I just-” 

Damn it. 

Her eyes, green as ever, hold his own with a certain ferocity that sends an ache burning through the pit of Rhys’ belly.  _ God _ . He reaches behind his head with his free hand and scratches the back of his neck, a thin sheen of sweat forming at his collar. 

“I- wanted-” He pauses. 

“Take your time,” Purrs Fiona, but judging by the smile on her face it’s not an encouragement but a jab at his own inability to, in few words,  _ man up _ .

She dabs at the ointment, her movements pointed and precise, and he clears his throat. 

“I  _ wanted _ you there.” He says, almost panting with the effort. “You know. Because we’re. Uh. Friends. Moral support, and all that.”

Fiona lifts his hand to examine it in the light. Something almost  _ soft _ flashes across her face but it’s gone just as soon as it appears, leaving Rhys with a  _ fuzzy _ feeling in his chest.

“Well _why_ didn’t you just say that in the first place?” She wonders, and Rhys laughs nervously. 

“I thought you might hurt me. You’ve threatened me with death at  _ least _ six times since I got here. It was justified.”

“Actually,” she says, releasing his hand and reaching for a roll of bandaging. “I would have preferred it that way.” She unrolls a long strip and rips it between her teeth. “As opposed to you calling it a  _ date _ .”

Rhys nods. “Yeah,” He mumbles. “Right.” Twist the knife, why don’t she? She tugs him closer to her, and whether or not she knows he’s standing  _ between her legs _ is absolutely unknown to him. He can only hope that the blush he  _ knows _ is spreading across his face goes unnoticed.

Wrapping the bandaging a few times around his hand, she falls silent, and Rhys takes it as an opportunity to catalog the tiny dimple between her eyebrows, the slightest jut of her tongue between her lips, the few strands of soft tawny hair that fall across her forehead.

What is he  _ doing? _ Is he out of his  _ mind? _

Thinking about that kind of stuff is for  _ pussies _ . He might as well hand her the leash that he’s got tied to his _balls_.

“So,” he chirps, eager to change the subject. “You got an outfit planned out?”

Her grip tightens so fast and so hard that he can practically hear the bones in his hand popping. He yelps, yanking his hand towards himself. 

“I never said I was  _ going _ , idiot.” Her stare is deadly, and it’s enough to kill whatever mood had been stirring within him. Suddenly all he wants to do is get back to the kitchen, where the only outright problem was the fact that Sasha liked to stick her hand into the frying pan all willy-nilly.

But just as soon as that dark expression crosses her face, it’s gone - and then she’s all smiles, although he can’t be too sure that her smile is  _ friendly _ .

And then, hesitantly, he takes the safety pin she’s wielding ( _ he can’t be too sure she won’t stab him with it _ ) and pins up the bandage, moving as slowly as he would move around a rattlesnake with its tail in motion. 

“ _ Jesus _ , Rhys,” Fiona says, almost  _ breathless _ . 

And before he can even big to question  _ why  _ she’s acting the way she is, she snaps her first aid kit shut and uses her free hand to shove Rhys backwards far enough to slide herself off the bathroom counter.

“ _ What? _ ” He asks, flexing the fingers of his freshly-wrapped hand. “What did I do?!”

The bandages are tight, but not enough to limit mobility. Hopefully the burn will be gone by the gathering on Eden-5 -- he’d hate to have to explain the damage to the dignitaries of the immediate solar system. 

_ ‘Master Rhys, why is your hand wrapped up?’  _

_ ‘Oh, well, yes, my idiot friend decided it would be cool to eat a strip of skag meat directly out of the pan and the ensuing grease bubble burned the  _ shit _ out of me! Hoohoo, cheerio, good-day!’ _

Blegh. 

Fiona wheels around and points an accusatory finger at him. “You...just…” she grinds out, her voice almost strained. “You…”

And then, as if she’s just screwed on a brand new noggin, mutters with glee, “You’re an  _ idiot _ .”

And as Rhys shrugs and follows her back to the kitchen, he doesn’t let himself argue -- because for once in his miserable life, he doesn’t think she’s wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drop some kudos (and/or comments) and catch me on twitter @950107s!

**Author's Note:**

> one of my mutuals on twitter was like "you've heard of enemies to lovers and you've heard of fake dating, now get ready for enemies to lovers THROUGH fake dating!" and i was like. god. yes. please. let me write it. so here it is. sorry for the length problem? i know chapters are supposed to be longer than this but once i get back in the groove i can probably push out more content than this. go team! leave some kudos & some comments, as always, because i really appreciate them! mwah!


End file.
